O! lovely is my native land
With all its skies of cloudless light;
But there's a heart, and there's a hand
More dear to me than sky most bright.
I prize them—yes, as though they were
On earth the only things divine,
The only good, the only fair—
And O! that heart and hand are thine.
My native land hath heavenliest bowers
Where Houris ruby-cheeked might dwell,
And they are gemmed with buds and flowers
Sweeter than lip or lute may tell.
But there's a sigh, and there's a fear
With passion's warmth and glory's shine,
Than bud or flower to me more dear—
And oh! that tear and sigh are thine.
My native home, my native home
Hath in its groves the turtle dove,
And from her nest she will not roam—
For it is warmed with faith and love.
But there is love, and there is faith,
Which round a bleeding heart entwine,
To thee devoted even to death—
And ah! that love and faith are mine!
A mosque there is in fair Cashmeer
With all its minarets bright as day,
Where resteth now of sainted Peer
The lifeless but unfading clay.
But there's a heart, a broken heart,
Where burns a thought as in a shrine,
And cannot, will not, all depart—
The thought's of thee, the heart is mine.